I’m sitting here at my computer desk in our front room. I have my 2 year old, B, sitting on my lap, completely naked and with snot dripping from her nose which she is intent on wiping down my shirt.
My eldest two, C, 6, and A, 4, are watching TV, currently the Tweenies on CBeebies. They have done nothing but argue with each other since they woke at 7am. They even managed to argue when they were teaming up in an effort to get me out of bed. The air is punctuated every couple of minutes with another “she kicked me!” cry. Middle daughter also has it in her head that because she’s not allowed to sit on my lap as B has taken the prime spot, that she can instead whinge loudly about it.
Mel is in bed upstairs with our son, who turns six months old soon. He is screaming the house down, adding to the cacophony of noise which may lead the neighbours to think we are torturing children in the house.
The noise, arguments, snotty noses and disobedience drives me mad. With one kid it was hard, with four it’s enough to drive the sanest people over the edge. Yet I wouldn’t change it for the world.
I know that in just a few years, C and A will hit their teens and shy away from the affection that I show them now. B will no longer interrupt conversations between Mel and I to tell us “I love you”, and I can’t see her getting the same level of glee out of playing with a plastic star covered in glitter that she gets now.
I also doubt that CG will cuddle up to me on cold mornings and grip my fingers as if his life depends on it.
No wonder they say parenthood is the hardest yet most rewarding job in the world!